The Catastrophic History of You And Me (10 page)

“She’s
gone,
Daniel, listen to yourself.” She got up from the table and carried her plate to the kitchen sink. Turned the hot water on, so steam began fogging up the window where I was peering in. I leaned in closer.

“She was healthy,” Dad continued. “We were on top of it. Her heart was healthy.”

“Or maybe it wasn’t.” Mom was crying again. She paused to wipe her tears away. “Maybe we were wrong.”

“No!” Dad slammed his fist down on the kitchen table suddenly, knocking over the sugar bowl. The sound made Mom and me both jump. “An acute massive coronary in a fifteen-year-old girl? Tissue doesn’t just tear, Katie. A heart doesn’t just split in goddamn half!”

“Calm down,” said Mom. “Jack can hear you.”

Dad took a deep breath. Looked like he was trying to collect himself. “My team has never seen a case like it,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Brie could help us save other people—to make sure something like this won’t happen again.”

“It’s not your fault, Daniel,” Mom whispered. “It’s not anybody’s fault.”

“That boy had something to do with this.” Dad shook his head. “I know he did.”

You’re right, D
ad.
You’re so close
.

“What are you going to do?” Mom demanded. “Lock up a sixteen-year-old boy for having a fight with your daughter? He’s a
child,
Daniel. You saw her heart—” Her voice wavered. “You saw it with your own eyes. We all did. Don’t you dare try and tell me Jacob Fischer is responsible for that.” She broke down, sobbing.

More than you think.

“You’ve been sleeping at the office for weeks.” Mom turned around to face him, tears flowing down her cheeks. “We need you here, Daniel. Jack and I need you.”

“What about Brie?” he said. “She doesn’t?”

“She’s GONE!” Mom screamed at the top of her lungs, her shoulders shaking.

No, no, no, please don’t fight, please don’t fight.

I wanted to cover my eyes and my ears—I wanted to run away and never come back. But I couldn’t tear myself away from the window.

“I’m close,” said Dad. “I have a theory.”

“You have us,” sobbed Mom. “Isn’t that enough?” She tried to hug him, but he pulled away.

“No.” He stood up. “Not right now it’s not.” He took his car keys from the counter. “I’m one of the top cardiac surgeons in the world, Katie. How do you think it
looks?
How do you think it looks when I don’t have an answer for what happened to my own daughter?”

That’s my dad for you. Always the realist. It was what he did best, after all. He gave the facts. He laid out the truth. People came from all over the country—all over the world, even—seeking his help. It had to be killing him that he hadn’t been able to put me, his own daughter, back together again.

Mom was different. She was the artist in our family. The free spirit. She taught advanced drawing classes at the SF Art Institute. When they first met, their differences made them stronger. Now those very same differences were tearing them apart.

“They need me at the hospital,” Dad said.

“We need you
here,
” said Mom.

Stop it, stop it, please don’t fight, not over me. I’m so sorry
.

“I’ll try not to be too late.”

“What about dinner?” said Mom bitterly. “It’s her birthday, Daniel. You’re really going to work late tonight?”

I froze.
My birthday
. I turned to Patrick.

“Sixteen,” he said. “Happy birthday, Brie.”

Dad sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

“Your best isn’t good enough.”

“I have to do this, Kathryn.” His voice was cold. Angry. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d called my mom by her full name.

She stormed out of the kitchen. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

I darted from the kitchen window, back across the yard. I took the porch steps two at a time, racing to the front door. I had to try and talk to them. I had to let them know they didn’t have to worry about me. I would go inside, and everything would be okay. I’d find a way to
make
it okay. This was my family. And they needed my help.

You can’t,
Patrick whispered inside my head.

Can’t what? Stop telling me what I can and can’t do.

I reached out, preparing to feel the cool touch of smooth, hard metal just like I had a thousand times before. But when I grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it, nothing happened.

What the—?

I tried again. Then again. I was locked out.

“I hate this stupid house!” I lashed out, trying to kick the door in.

Still nothing. No matter what I did or how much I pushed and shoved and rammed my body into the door, it wouldn’t budge.

“I hate it I hate it I hate it!!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, the words burning my throat like hot coals. After a minute, I collapsed on the porch stairs, breathing hard. I was so angry that tiny wisps of steam were rolling off my arms and back. I was literally on fire.

Patrick slowly made his way up the steps. “Feel better?”

I’ve got to go inside
.

You CAN’T
.

“That’s crazy!” I screamed. “Why not?” I spun back around, jumped up, and tried the door all over again. Yelled for someone—anyone—to please, please,
please
let me in.

“You’re not ready, Brie. Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet?” I snapped. “I went to Jacob’s party. Why can’t I go home? Look, I’m focusing.” I squinted at the door and concentrated as hard as I could. “I’m
focused
. None of this makes any sense.”

Patrick spoke quietly. “It doesn’t have to, Angel.”

Jack darted right past me then, pulling the front door open with one quick turn, no big deal. I tried to sneak in behind him. Tried to shove my foot in the opening. Anything to get inside. But the door slammed shut in my face.

Not welcome.

I sank to my knees, resting my head against one of the windows on either side of the front door. They were yelling again. Dad’s voice was booming through the house loud and clear, and I could hear Hamloaf barking his head off. I banged on my thighs with my fists. “I’m right here! Stop it, you two! Stop
fighting
!”

I glanced through the window. Inside, things looked the same as always. The same hardwood floors; the same coat closets; the same china cabinet in the dining room; the same big comfy couches peeking out from the family room; the same shelves and shelves and shelves of books. Mom’s cute little potted plants lining our glassed-in back porch, all wild and unkempt and probably needing water like crazy.

But there was nothing I could do. Nothing but watch my sweet, once-perfect family fall apart around me. I squeezed my eyes shut and clunked my forehead against the glass.

I hate this. I hate this so much. Everything is so unfair.

A tiny sniff suddenly caught my attention. Then a whine, followed by an excited sneeze. I looked up and felt myself melt into pieces.

There, staring at me through the window, his long, silky ears and kissable face just inches from my own, was Hamloaf.

CHAPTER 16

total eclipse of the heart

T
his couldn’t be real. Those big brown eyes couldn’t possibly be looking at me. I spun around to check the street. There had to be a squirrel, or a cat, or some other animal that must have caught his attention. A jogger, maybe? Or a stray Frisbee from the Brenners’ front yard? But nothing stood out. Nothing seemed to be moving at all.

Well, that’s weird
.

I turned back to the window, and there was Hamloaf, still sitting in the exact same spot as before and still looking right at me. He hadn’t budged an inch. His bright white chest was all puffed out, and his head was cocked curiously to the side. He sniffed the air and let out a deep, uncertain woof.

“Hey there, handsome boy,” I whispered.

He tilted his head again in that unbelievably cute way dogs do when they’re like,
huh?,
and I watched as his tail began to thump gently on the floor.

This is not even a little bit possible.

I couldn’t help myself, and slowly reached out my hand toward the glass.

He jumped back and began to bark.

“Shh!” I said. “Quiet!”

His ears perked up the second the words left my mouth.

“Good boy,” I said, my eyes locked on his sweet old basset houndy face. “Come on, boy. Come on.” I reached toward him a second time. Let my hand come to rest on the window.

Hamloaf went still. His tail stopped thumping and he leaned in cautiously for another sniff.

“Hammy?” I searched his eyes. But there was no recognition. There was nothing.

He can’t see me
.
Who am I kidd
ing?

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said softly from the porch stairs. “I really am.”

My hand fell back to my side. And I began to cry.

“I’m so stupid,” I said. “You were right. I’m just stuck here forever and ever, through the rest of this lame-ass eternity, without any family, or any friends—”

“Um, thanks,” interrupted Patrick.

“—or my boyfriend, or even my dog—”

“Brie, wait—”

“—until, like, my soul disintegrates or the
universe
explodes—”

“Brie,
look
—”

“—or whichever awful thing comes first—”

“God, will you LOOK?”

“Huh?” I looked up.

Hamloaf was scratching the window. Right where my hand had been.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. I couldn’t believe it. It was the only trick we’d ever managed to teach him.

He’s trying to shake.

Tears began spilling down my cheeks and I let out a giant laugh. “You crazy dog, you CAN see me!” For a moment, all of the anger inside me melted away. I jumped up, clapping my hands and laughing my head off while Hamloaf started barking and baying and spinning in circles on the other side of the glass.

“Good boy!” I cried.
“Good boy!”

He responded by leaping up and furiously trying to lick the window.

Patrick shook his head. “I’ll be damned. Never seen anything like that.”

“Hamloaf, no barking!” I heard Mom yell from the kitchen. “Who’s at the door?”

“It’s me!” I cried out. “Mom, it’s ME!”

She walked up to the door and I heard the clicking of the lock. Suddenly, she was there.

Mom
.

We were face-to-face.

I reached out, but my hand passed right through her.

No, please. Please see me. I’m here.

She shivered a little and pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders. But Hamloaf seized his chance, diving forward through the open door, and started to cover me with doggy kisses. I couldn’t get enough. I’d never wanted to be covered in dog drool so badly.

“Hamloaf, stop it.” Mom grabbed his collar and tried to pull him back inside, away from me. I could see by the look on her face that she was a little freaked out. Something was off. She just wasn’t sure what.

Before I could reach her, before I could make her see, she took a step back through the front door. I felt the old anger and resentment bubbling back up.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, don’t—”

“Come on, Hamloaf. Let’s get your breakfast.”

“Stop it! Stay with me!” It wasn’t fair. I just wanted to go inside. Why the hell couldn’t I go inside?! I took a step forward, and Hamloaf began to bark again, the hair on the scruff of his neck puffing up.

“What’s gotten into you?” said Mom. “Stop it. Stop it right now.”

He didn’t budge. He didn’t want to leave me.

“Hamloaf Eagan, get inside this minute.” Mom pointed sternly into the living room.

He let out a long, high-pitched whine like he knew he was in trouble, and looked up at me for support. He didn’t understand why I couldn’t come inside too. I wished somebody could’ve explained it to both of us.

“It’s okay, Hammy,” I said softly. “Go inside. Go with Mom.” I kneeled down. Took his snout in my hands and covered his nose with kisses. “At least this is something,” I said. “At least we have something.” Then I pushed him inside.

Mom closed the door right behind him, locking me out for good. I stared at her through the chilly glass.

“I hate this.”

“Don’t we all,” said Patrick. “Don’t we all.”

Suddenly, the sound of the garage door opening caught my attention. “I’m going to the hospital,” I heard Dad say from inside. His tone wasn’t friendly. Not even a tiny bit.

No, Dad. Don’t go.

I wiped my face, jumped to my feet, and flew down the front stairs. If anyone was leaving this house, they’d have to run me down first. I tore around the edge of the house, past Mom’s bright red roses.

“Dad!” I yelled. “Don’t go!”

He put the key in the ignition, started the car, and backed right out of the driveway. I watched his face as he checked for oncoming traffic, turned right, and sped away down our block. Like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

But I was sick of being left behind. So I started walking toward the street. I started jogging. Then I was running, full force, as fast as my legs would let me go.

Brie, what the hell are you doing?

Following him, what’s it look like?!

Patrick was instantly by my side. He grabbed my hand.

Hold on
.

Seconds later, my feet smashed into the concrete walkway of the San Francisco Medical University. I went flying backward twenty feet, straight into a hedge.

“Ugh,”
I groaned, once the air had finally crawled back into my lungs. “That really hurt.”

“Seven and a half,” said Patrick. “Nice height, good distance, but automatic three-point deduction for the sloppy landing.”

“Give me a break.” I rubbed my bruised knees. “It’s foggy. Bad visibility. And I’d like to see you
try that in a dress. I demand a recount.”

“Now, now, let’s not get greedy. You’re lucky I gave you the extra half point.”

He pulled me up, laughing. I dusted myself off and limped over to the curb. Then we waited.

Fifteen minutes later, I finally saw Dad’s old BMW coming down the road. He put on his blinker, turned left, and parked in a spot not too far away from the hospital entrance. I stood up as he walked toward me.

Dad, I’m here
.

I reached out to touch him, but just like with Mom, my hand passed right through him. He kept walking. So I followed. I followed him through the automatic sliding doors into the ER, down the hallway that smelled like plastic and tile cleaner, and into the open elevator. He hit the button for the fourth floor and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. I finally got a good look at him.

He was scruffy and unshaven. Permanent dark circles had chiseled themselves under his eyes, and he looked thinner. But he was still so handsome. I reached over and tried to hold his hand.

Dad, it’s me
.

He pulled away, slipping his hand into his pocket. The elevator came to a stop.
Bing
-ed twice. Doors opened.

Patrick and I followed him down another fluorescent hallway and through a pair of swinging doors. We passed the intensive care unit, and finally made a left into the cardiology wing.

I shivered and felt my stomach tense. The last time I’d come through here was on a stretcher. Dad had been holding my hand. Even though I was already gone.

We took another left and arrived at his office door. He rummaged through his coat pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and fiddled with the knob. Patrick and I followed him inside, even though we couldn’t see much, since the room was totally dark. He shut the door behind us, locking us in.

Wait, why did he lock it
?

Then he flipped on the light. And I gasped out loud.

It was like a bomb had gone off. The room was a total disaster. Covered wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling with papers. Newspaper clippings. X-rays. Photographs. Journal entries. Dozens and dozens of notebooks. There wasn’t a molecule of white space anywhere.

What is all this stuff?

Maybe he’s got a new hobby
? Patrick joked.

I didn’t laugh, because I had a feeling he was on to something. I ran my hands along the messy, collaged walls, skimming the headlines.

H
ALF
M
OON
B
AY
T
EEN
S
UFFERS
M
ASSIVE
C
ORONARY
.

L
OCAL
G
IRL
, 15, D
EAD
F
ROM
W
EAKENED
H
EART
—C
OULD
Y
OUR
C
HILDREN
B
E AT
R
ISK
?

Then I got it. Dad
did
have a new hobby. And the new hobby was me.

Even more framed articles and scattered clippings lined the walls, along with several magazine covers featuring my face front and center.

All of these are about ME?

I didn’t know what to say.

“Hey, look,” said Patrick. “You’re famous.”

I walked over to Dad, who’d sat down at his desk. Watched him as he riffled through stacks and stacks of papers, sometimes pausing to cut out articles, sometimes pulling a reference book from the messy, dusty shelves to look something up. He scribbled endless notes into notebook after notebook—questions and theories and stories he’d discovered in all of his research.

I’d never seen him like this before. He was like some weird, alternate version of himself. Driven crazy by what the medical facts couldn’t possibly explain. Mom was right: He was obsessed. He couldn’t stop until he solved the puzzle.

Oh Dad, it’s just a broken heart. Not rocket science
.

I curled up on his black leather couch, the one where Jack and I used to make paper fortune tellers from Dad’s notebook scraps and then read each other’s futures out loud.
Three kids. One pet, a goldfish named Flipper. You’ll live in a mansion. You’ll be an astronaut.

But we never could have predicted this. Not in a million years.

Seeing him like this made my chest ache. I’d messed so much up for so many people. Still, in a way, seeing how much he cared made me love him even more. Watching how wrapped up he’d become in answering the biggest mystery of his entire career:
Me
.

The phone rang. He picked it up.

“Yes?” He paused. “Honey, don’t cry. I know. I’m sorry too.”

I sat up.

It’s Mom. They’re making up.

“Okay,” Dad said. “Good. I’ll be there soon.”

He’s going home, he’s going home, he’s going home
!

I jumped up. I was a little kid on Christmas morning.

Dad finished typing an e-mail, packed up his briefcase, turned off the light, and locked his office door. We followed him out to the parking lot and climbed into the backseat. I was so glad to get out of there.

“I can’t believe you’re making me ride in this clunky old thing,” Patrick grumbled. “I’ll be the laughingstock of heaven if anyone finds out. Zooming is so much more efficient.”

I giggled. It was fun watching him get annoyed.

We sped down the road and Dad turned on the radio. Bon Jovi.

“OhmigodIlovethissong!” I cried, feeling more hopeful than I ever had since leaving Slice. “Come on, Dad, turn it up!” I started singing at the top of my lungs. “
Whoa-oh, livin’ on a prayer!
”

“Wow. My hearing will never be the same.” Patrick grimaced. “Remind me to get you singing lessons for your next birthday.”